


To Have and Not Hold

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, romance, hurt/comfort. Red saves Liz, but at what eventual cost?</p><p>Borrowing this man and this woman, not mine, no profit involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Together Again

Liz awakens and looks around the familiar plane in sleepy bewilderment.

Right. They're probably somewhere over the Atlantic.

Dembe is sleeping near the front of the jet, his leather seat reclined. Red is reading in the seat opposite her, the small overhead light falling upon the open pages of a hefty hardback open in his lap.

Liz lays her head back and studies him from under her all but closed eyelids.

He's in shirtsleeves and vest, his tie discarded, his cuffs rolled up. As he turns a page, she watches him with an odd sort of delicate enjoyment. She can tell from the lines around his mouth that he's enjoying what he's reading.

It's been a long six months they've been apart, Liz assigned to relatively menial work in San Francisco as an analyst, Red who knows where. He just vanished, until she was reassigned back to the task force and sent on this mission the day she arrived back at the Post Office.

A brace of missiles in private hands, in central Europe.

Red has been contracted to supply the warheads, but they don't know where the delivery systems are coming from.

Tomorrow, or maybe today, they are meeting one of his contacts in Andorra, to broker the deal. They'll be landing in Barcelona by sunrise.

The bureau decided Liz wasn't completely trustworthy, when she took a bullet for Reddington in the course of their hunt for the last blacklister. Well, three bullets. Liz had been pretty confident the vest would stop them, that she was moving fast enough to escape a head shot.

Red was lying by the pool in a white hotel robe, drinking a martini, when she came running towards him. When she inadvertently attracted the attention of their target.

Liz remembers how the bullets pounded her as she flung herself on Red. The scratch on his cheek where she knocked his sunglasses askew. The smell of coconut oil on his skin.

The sound of the blast as Red pulled a weapon from beneath his beach towel and shot the man twice, so fast she barely registered the movement. 

They would not be welcome back at that five star hotel. It had taken long months for Liz to convince the bureau that she had only been doing what she saw as her job. Protecting a valuable asset. The fact that Red did not contact her once during that time was helpful, if unexpected.

"Yes?"

Red closes his book, marking his place with one finger, and meets her gaze across the narrow aisle of the plane.

Liz shrugs. She does not need to think about how much she missed him, not when he's looking at her.

"Just wondering about tomorrow," she says.

"Three hours in a car - beautiful mountains, too many of them," he responds. There are deep circles under his eyes. He doesn't seem to sleep much, or deeply. She can't help but wonder what Red looks like, fully asleep. Probably determined, even then.

He looks down at his watch. "Today, actually."

Liz doesn't like the plan. They will be depending on Red's contact for the transport, while Dembe takes the plane to pick up the warheads. He's got to purchase them first, and that may take time. They will be staying with their hostess, in her private villa.

Marietta, Lady Martingale, looks elegant and self-assured in her file photos. Not the sort of woman to broker arms deals on three continents.

"You'll enjoy Andorra," Red assures her. "Mari sets an excellent table."

Liz closes her eyes and pretends to sleep. 

***

The cars that meet the plane, three of them, are small and shiny white. Guards in the front and back cars, along with their luggage.

"Go on, sit up front, enjoy the views" Red urges Liz, holding the door to the middle car. Liz climbs in, gives the uniformed driver a dubious smile. He nods, then stares straight ahead as Red then ushers their hostess to a seat in the back. Climbs in next to her.

Lady Martingale is small and even more elegant in person, with waved black hair and large black eyes, wearing a long white fur and tiny, narrow boots with high, high heels.

"Mari, my dear, I can't remember seeing you look so well," laughs Red, bending over her hand and actually kissing, kissing, each of her fingers. Liz can see what he's doing in the rear view mirror. As they chat, switching rapidly between English, French, and some other language which she assumes is Catalan, Liz watches them turning towards each other, body language mirrored.

Liz looks out the window, wishing she could have slept a few more hours. 

More than two hours later, she's peering down at a snow-field, the ribbon of road they have driven up unwinding below in short, steep curves, when the snow suddenly seems to come rushing up at her.

Struck by an oncoming van, the car rolls off the road and bounces several times.

Liz hits her head and blackness overtakes her.


	2. Betrayal

As the car begins to slide, Red bends over in his seat and curls into a ball, arms up to protect his head. His seat belt holds him as the car bounces, rolling down the slope, each roll crushing the roof further. He hears a scream as his companion, who failed to put on a seat belt, flies forward.

Even with his arms around his head, he hears the shots. 

As the car comes to rest on one side, Red reaches forward to feel Lizzie's pulse as she hangs motionless in the seat in front of him, blood dripping from her nose and mouth.

She's alive.

He reaches over her to yank the gun from the inside pocket of the unconscious or dead driver, pulling it out by feel, and drags himself out the back window, ignoring the shattered glass that glitters as brightly as the snow.

Three unfamiliar, heavily armed men stand watching him, and more are running down the slope. All three of the white cars are strewn about the hillside, and two large black vans are idling on the road above, steam emerging from their tailpipes.

Red draws himself up. 

"I am Raymond Reddington," he says, holding the gun out to one side, wishing for his hat.

"We have orders to bring you with us" says one of the men, slowly, in lightly accented English. "These others, they are not important."

As if that was a signal, one of the other men walks over to the car and takes aim at the still, crumpled figure of Lady Martingale, shoots twice, lifts the gun to the driver's head.

"My wife is in the front seat" says Red swiftly. "She needs medical attention." He tosses his gun in the snow in front of the man who spoke, spreads his hands wide. "If you want me, my services, you'll need to bring her along as well."

The man at the car shoots the driver, then turns with a look of inquiry on his face.

"Pack her up and bring her" says the first man. "We can always shoot her later."

Stumbling and sliding in his dress shoes in the knee deep snow, Red allows himself to marched up the waiting vans, hearing the man behind him swearing as he carries the unconscious Lizzie in his arms up the steep hill.

"Get in."

Red climbs into the back of the van and reaches out for Liz, cradles her in his arms, tucks her face against his shoulder as she moans in pain.

Her right ankle is twisted or broken, and at least three fingers on her right hand, and there's too much blood welling up under her hair.

Red unbuttons his overcoat and holds her tight within its folds, trying to keep her warm.

He's not completely shocked when after many hours of driving the van eventually pulls to a stop at an isolated stone courtyard where a stretcher is waiting for Liz. Not Lady Martingale's villa in Arinsal, but instead some remote fastness high amid the crags. Red walks beside her as men carry her upstairs into a large house, two flights up and down a long hall to a barred and locked door.

"She needs medical attention" Red repeats.

There are footsteps behind him; one of the guards has retrieved their baggage and behind him is an older man, carrying an old fashioned, black leather valise.

The men lift Liz onto a small double bed with elaborate red and gold hangings, and leave with the stretcher. The guards remain just inside the door, weapons trained on Red, as he stands watching the doctor clean and bandage Liz's visible wounds, cutting off her torn and blood stained clothes to leave her in just her bra and panties. He gives her a shot for pain, and leaves a tall glass bottle of spring water and a vial of aspirin for Red.

"Your wife needs to sleep" he says in French. "You should take a bath; you will be stiff tomorrow."

Red is sitting in an upholstered chair beside the bed. He realizes he's shivering; he's wet to mid-thigh from his trek through the snow, and his neck is sore and tight. 

The doctor gestures at a closed door.

"I will be back tomorrow" he tells Red, and leaves, followed by the guards.

Red hears the door being bolted shut from the outside, a low conversation that sounds like the guards arguing over who has first shift outside the door.

No dinner tonight. Red hopes it's just an oversight.

Dragging himself wearily to his feet, Red explores the small suite of rooms; bedroom, bathroom, an alcove with a small round carved wooden table and two chairs.

The shutters on every window are bolted and locked shut.

Their luggage is piled in a heap by the door.

Wincing, Red leans down and picks up their bags, carries them to the armoire on the far wall, and carefully unpacks and hangs out both his and Liz's clothing. There's a drawer for their underclothes and socks; he piles his items on the left and hers carefully on the right. Then he takes their toiletries into the bathroom, arranging them on the left and right side of the sink.

He's going to be the very picture of a solicitous husband.

It takes a while for the bathwater to run hot, but eventually Red is able to soak himself clean and dress in green cotton pajamas piped in cream and a matching velvet robe.

He feel Liz's forehead one last time before sliding under the covers beside her. It's a small bed; even lying on the edge, their shoulders touch if he lies on his back.

Red lies on his side, facing Liz. Her bandaged head is cushioned by several pillows; her profile is soft in sleep.

She could have died. He can feel the warmth of her body beneath the heavy covers. He needs to think about this place, who could be holding him prisoner, why they killed someone as useful as Lady Martingale. Poor Mari.

She only agreed to broker this deal as a favor.

Watching Liz breath, Red's eyes grow heavy and at last he sleeps.


	3. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz wakes up after the accident

Liz awakens, head pounding so hard she almost retches.

She's lying on her back in a soft bed, staring up at a peaked ceiling with carved, dark wood beams. Thin slants of pale light are sliding through slits in the wood shutters covering the windows of the room. There's a huge dark armoire on the wall at the foot of the bed.

Spanish style. Is this a hotel?

Her right side feels warmer somehow than her left.

Liz turns her head just slightly, blinking back tears at the pain in her neck. She can feel bandages on one hand, on her foot, but her back and neck hurt almost as badly as her head.

Red.

She can see Red.

He's lying in bed next to her, his head on a pillow facing toward her, fast asleep.

Red? What is Red doing in her bed? Is this her bed?

Liz recognizes that her brain is working very slowly, identifies the mugginess, her dry mouth, as the after effects of pain medication.

Red looks so young, so unguarded, in his deep, deep sleep. His thick pale lashes seem longer, his expressive lips softer. This close to him, she can see every pore, the faint sprinkle of freckles at his temples, the curving line where his hairline meets the smooth skin of the top of his head. 

His eyes open as if her gaze touched him like a hand. His nostrils flare.

"Elizabeth?" he whispers.

He never calls her anything but Lizzie. Unless he's angry.

Or perhaps someone is listening.

Liz blinks, trying to clear her mind. Even blinking hurts. Her eyes want to stay closed.

"Where are we?" she whispers back. "Why are we in bed together?"

"Possibly, Andorra" he whispers back. "Possibly France."

"Why am I in this bed with you, Red?" Liz whispers again.

"You're my wife, Elizabeth, where else would you expect to sleep?"

Liz stares back at him, searching her thoughts. Nothing.

Her last clear memory is going to sleep in her sublet in San Francisco, after an evening spent walking the foggy beach a few blocks away. Wishing she could have brought Hudson with her.

"What's the last thing you remember, Elizabeth?" Red asks her, still whispering. He looks concerned.

The pillow is soft beneath her cheek. She looks over at Red's teeth, the raised curve of his pale eyebrows, the striped cream bed cover tucked up to his neck and folded back.

"I was in San Francisco, after the shooting. You never called me."

His eyes widen. Red answers the question she wants to ask.

"The shooting made me realize how important you are to me. You took an extended leave from work, married me in St. Kitts."

"I don't remember that."

His eyes crinkle at the corners. 

"We spent our honeymoon traveling in our plane, making love in every time zone, all the way around the world. You positively insisted." Red smiles reminiscently. His tone is warm, intimate. "Are you certain you don't remember?"

Liz licks her lips.

"No," she whispers back. "Oh Red, I'm so sorry, but I don't."

Red blinks at her as if he expected some other response.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." She swallows hard. "I'm sure it was so wonderful."

"We've been in an accident, Elizabeth, and you've been unconscious. I'm sure you will remember who we are to each other very soon."

"Can you help me to the bathroom?"

"Of course."

Red rises, pulls on a long, elegant bathrobe.

When he gently folds back the covers, Liz can see that she's been sleeping in a lacy black bra and panties that she doesn't remember owning. Her right hand and foot are bandaged. Trying to sit up on the side of the bed with Red's assistance almost causes her to black out.

"My back" she whimpers. "My neck."

"This will hurt," Red informs her, then lifts her like a child in his arms and carries her to the bathroom.

He's right about that. But the relief feels wonderful.

As she washes her hands, leaning back against Red to steady herself as she tries balancing on one bare foot, Liz catches a glimpse of her pain-drawn face in the mirror, one cheek bruised, dark hair shaved back at her right temple, the layers of bandages wound around her head.

"Do I have clothes?" she asks Red muzzily, as he carries her back to bed.

"Of course, my dear."

Red crosses to the armoire, extracts a loose cotton knit sleep shirt in stripes of blue and turquoise. He tugs it over her head before reaching underneath to remove her bra and panties, then slide her arms through the floppy sleeves.

Sam sent her this for Christmas one year. When she packed for the move to San Francisco, Liz got rid of most of the clothes she owned when she was married to Tom. She kept visualizing his hands on her, the way he would fiddle with her buttons, give her little touches as if twitching her clothes into place.

Red's hands are light and firm as he dresses her. Almost impersonal except for how extremely careful he's being not to jar her spine or neck.

He helps her lie back onto the pillows, holds a half-empty bottle of spring water to her lips.

"I'm sure the doctor will be here with medication soon."

He crosses to the door, tries the handle, pounds on it twice.

Liz watches almost dreamily, admiring Red's broad shoulders, the tilt of his head as he listens for the guard's response.

It sounds like Red is speaking Spanish through the door. Her husband. She's married to the Concierge of Crime, surely the last thing she could ever have imagined when she applied to the Academy.

Why can't she remember?

She's sore, and she's hungry, but most of all she's tired.

Liz isn't sure that sleeping so much with a head wound is a good idea, but Red has tucked the covers up to her chin, and packed her into place on her back with a number of strategically placed pillows, and she's so warm.

There's something comforting about having a man, this man, her husband, taking care of her.

She can take care of herself, Liz is usually so adamant about that. 

At this particular moment, she has no idea why. 

Snuggling down in bed, listening to the persuasive murmur of Red's deep voice, she drops away into sleep.


	4. A Very Thin Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz wants to remember

At length, the door is unlocked, and breakfast on a tray, including a tall, steaming silver pot of coffee, is delivered. 

Red thanks the two armed guards, yet another different set of unfamiliar faces. The house must be bigger than it looked when they arrived; it was hard to see from inside the van.

He is informed that the doctor, however, will not arrive for some hours.

Red seats himself at the small round table with a flourish, arranges his napkin in his lap, eats pastries and eggs and roasted potatoes drenched in spicy sauce. If anyone is watching, he knows he appears confident, even cheerful.

He drinks his half of the coffee pot, then, with a glance over at the still-sleeping Liz, pours himself another cup.

Amnesia after a concussion is not necessarily a bad sign, but it means Liz is going to be worse than useless in any attempt at escape, even without her other, physical injuries. She could have bleeding inside her brain; she needs to remain still, and calm, until she heals. 

He's got to walk a very thin line until he can figure out why he's being held prisoner, and formulate a plan. It's really all he can do in here right now; that, and take lengthy hot baths. There is nothing in the suite to entertain him, no books, no television, not even a radio.

"Red?"

There's that unfamiliar, weak note in her voice again. 

"Is that coffee?"

Liz has turned her head slightly toward where he is sitting.

"Yes, Elizabeth, let me bring you a cup." He pours her a cup of the now lukewarm coffee, adds cream and sugar, stirs, carries it to the bedside.

She's trying to sit up against her pillows, her eyes glistening with tears as she fails at this small exertion.

"I'm so dizzy."

She looks up at him with a little pout as he sets the cup and saucer on the bedside table and props the pillows up behind her, raising her head just enough so she can drink.

He's getting ready to raise the cup to her lips when she speaks in a small voice.

"You haven't kissed me good morning."

The cup rattles against the saucer, but he manages not to spill any coffee.

'Have a sip first, dear," he encourages her, and she opens her mouth and takes several appreciative swallows.

He's kissed her forehead, her cheek, her soft dark hair. Never her lips.

Red sets down the cup and lays one hand along the unbruised side of her face. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Reddington."

He kisses her gently, lips closed although he feels the tip of her tongue as her mouth softens in response, then he draws back and drops a second kiss on the tip of her nose.

"You're covered in bruises," he whispers, "I don't want to hurt you."

Liz pulls her left hand out from under the covers with an effort, raises it to Red's face. She rubs her thumb over his stubbled cheek, her fingers finding the curve of his skull, the edge of his hairline behind his ear.

"Maybe if it hurts, I'll remember?" she whispers up at him, her blue eyes wide. "Red, why can't I remember?"

Red steps back from the bed with an effort. He clears his throat.

"The crash was traumatic. Give yourself time, my dear."

Liz nods obediently. He's never seen her so subdued.

"I'll bring you something to eat," says Red, wheeling around and fetching her a small plate containing two rolls stuffed with apricot and sprinkled with toasted almonds. He sets the plate on her thighs, watches for a moment as she reaches for a pastry, lifts it to her mouth. She has such soft, soft lips.

"Then, as you so eloquently pointed out, I need to bathe and shave."

"Go ahead," Liz gestures weakly with the roll. Red fetches fresh clothing from the armoire, closets himself in the bathroom, starts the water running as his heart slowly stops racing.

The way she smiled up at him as he leaned down to kiss her. So confused, yet so trusting.

Her lips are so soft.

Red predicts that he's going to be taking a lot of baths.


	5. Wondering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz wonders how this happened

Liz finishes both of the pastries, tries and fails to find a position into which she can bend her arm to reach the last of the coffee on the bedside table.

Every movement causes a stabbing pain behind her eyes. 

She gives up and lies back against the pillows, listens as the water in the bathroom shuts off. The wood of the door must be thin, she can hear soft splashing sounds.

Her husband.

How did she come to fall in love with Raymond Reddington?

She's known from the first that he's obsessed with her in some way, although his interest has never impressed her as romantic. At times she feels he treats her like a protege. His manner has alternated between demanding and affectionate, at times vaguely paternal. 

He's old enough to be her father.

Charming as hell, and physically the complete opposite of Tom, Red is even more deadly. A man who doesn't just keep secrets, he invents them, traffics in them, spins endless webs with his words.

It can't be something he said to her, she's spent too much time around Red by now. Watched him flirt with too many woman, all powerful, amoral, and ten years or more her senior.

It must have been something physical, some bond between them. It's the only logical conclusion.

At a very deep level, Liz knows that she reacts to power, to strength, to self-discipline. And she's watched Raymond Reddington use his freedom, his body, his world-wide network of decades-old contacts with utter ruthlessness in her service, and in his own.

He once told her, obliquely, that he'd burn the world down for her.

What is it like to lie naked in his arms, to feel all that will and intelligence turned on her, see that bitter light in his knowing eyes displaced by desire?

How can she have forgotten? 

Liz grits her teeth, trying to search her pounding, aching head.

"Elizabeth?"

Red emerges fully dressed from the bathroom, clean shaven. He smells of soap, and he looks rested and alert. 

"Is it your head?"

He comes to her side, lifts the last of her cold coffee to her lips, followed by four chalky, round aspirin tablets. She swallows.

It's not her head, it's her heart. 

Liz squints down at her left hand.

"Where's my wedding ring?" she asks.

"Gone in the crash, along with your purse, my briefcase, and sadly, my brand new hat," he replies promptly.

A little too promptly.

"Red, we weren't estranged, were we?"

He frowns intensely down at her, still holding the empty cup and saucer.

"No, darling, we were not."

"Darling?" she asks him. He sounds so glib.

"I almost lost you, Elizabeth." He wets his lips and she can't help but allow her gaze to linger at that glimpse of his tongue. He seems to have noticed, because he bends close, presses his warm cheek lightly to her bruised face, takes a deep whiff of her tangled hair. "Don't worry about anything, Elizabeth. You need to rest, to remain calm."

There's enough sincerity in his voice to roughen her own as she responds.

"Of course, darling."

She gives him the word back, knowing that since she chose to marry him, he deserves it. Deserves her love and her trust and her faith.

He kisses her ear, and she feels just the bare press of his teeth on her earlobe before he retreats again.

She's dizzy, and sore, and bruised from head to toe, and still the sting of pure desire lances through her at that tiny bite.

Oh, how Liz wants to get well.


	6. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red briefly leaves the room

Red is pacing by the time the doctor returns. It's a small suite, thoroughly inadequate to his need to be in some sort of motion.

Liz has been drifting in and out of sleep all morning, the wound on her head seeping, turning the bandages all shades of crimson, rust, and brown.

The doctor is matter of fact, his brusque manner more reassuring than if he responded to Red's speaking glances by fawning or explaining himself. He examines Liz, re-wraps her head, gives her another shot, and leaves as a plump housekeeper enters the room, guarded by the two guards from the first night.

She sets a basket with lunch on the table, then bustles around the bathroom, wiping down the surfaces and laying out clean towels. Red sits at the table and watches her, noticing that while she rebuffs his attempts at conversation, she has glanced over at Liz several times.

Fruit, cheese, olives, several varieties of salty dried meat, sliced thin. Half a soft white baguette is wrapped in a napkin. Butter in a little crock.

Best of all, a bottle of light red wine, unlabeled, cork half-out.

Red sets the grapes and the milder of the cheeses aside for Liz, then makes a hearty meal.

He's beginning to be very curious about his generous host.

He's enjoying his second glass of wine, watching from across the room as Liz sleeps, when the door opens once again.

"Come."

Four guards this time, two with automatic weapons. He expects them to bind or chain his wrists, shrugs inwardly when they merely motion him out into the hallway.

Red pulls on his suit coat and follows them, once again wishing for his hat.

He's learned something from this experience already - he depends too much on his fedora. At least he still has his sunglasses in his breast pocket - he can take them out and polish them, if he needs something to do with his hands.

The men usher him down dim stairs and passageways, all lined in the same gray stone as the courtyard where they arrived the previous night.

The shapes of the stones are ancient, but the cuts are too precise. The floors are too level.

Whoever built this house spent a lot of money trying to make a new house look old.

Mentally doubling the wealth of his unknown host, Red prepares himself to smile as he is ushered into a high-ceilinged room, filled with light.

He pauses as he takes in the windows to his left.

Three stories of pristine glass, perfectly framing snow covered peaks.

"Breathtaking" says Red, examining the man advancing toward him across the bright Moroccan carpets that litter the stone floor. The expensive rugs, of both silk and wool, lie at all angles as they've been tossed onto the floor, many of them overlapping.

He's a small man, stout, wearing a perfectly tailored two piece wool suit and suspenders. He is wearing thick, rimless glasses and his glistening black hair is styled with gel into peaks and swirls.

He smiles at Red genially, revealing several gold teeth. As they meet in the center of the room, he puts out one pudgy hand.

"Welcome, Mr. Reddington, to our humble abode."

Red takes the man's hand and searches his memory for the frog-like glint of the man's bulbous dark eyes, the way his earlobes hang like uneven little flaps, the perfectly accented English that reeks of South Africa.

"Are you related to the Mansours, by any chance?" he asks.

The man positively beams.

"Anders Mansour, at your service."

Red releases the man's hand and decides not to mention his last sight of the man's older brother, drifting face down in a humble drainage canal.

"Is this your home?" he asks the man, already knowing the answer even as he see the slow shake of the man's head. Those gold teeth do not match this house, any more they match his hand-stitched Italian loafers.

"Just visiting my sister - her husband will return soon, to welcome you properly."

Lord preserve him from flunkies and the powerless. 

"I assume you have some business need that requires my presence?"

Perhaps this is some local feud of Mari's, perhaps he can find some way to convince this little man to send him and Liz on their way.

They have people to see, missile components to buy and sell.

Anders Mansour shakes his head apologetically.

"I just wanted to welcome you, be sure there's nothing you need."

Red looks out at the panorama of snowy crags.

"Are we expecting a storm?" he asks lightly. "There are shutters on our windows - I'd prefer to enjoy the view, if that's possible."

"But of course."

He waves at one of the guards, motions him closer.

"Unbolt the shutters - allow him to take the air on the terrace."

"And my wife?"

The little man shrugs.

"I understand she is unwell, she sleeps?"

"Perhaps the fresh air would be good for her," Red responds.

"Of course, it shall be just as you wish."

The guard bows, actually bows to Anders Mansour, Uzi and all, then backs away with a glare at Red in response to his soft laugh.

The guards are all ex-military, touchy as hell. And they're afraid of something. Red can't be sure if it's the impending return of the owner of the house, or his extended absence.

Time to end this before he loses his small advantage. 

Anders Mansour is watching him carefully, summing him up.

"Make I select a book?" asks Red, motioning towards the shelves that line the far end of the room. 

"I will send a selection of reading materials to your room" the little man assures him. "Is there anything particular you would prefer?"

"Poetry" says Red, with a cynical twist of his lips. "To read to my wife, you understand."

"Of course."

Anders Mansour turns and begins to walk away, turns back towards Red.

"Perhaps tomorrow you will join me for supper?" he asks Red. He raises one finger in the air before Red can respond.

"But of course, you accept, with pleasure."

With a laugh, he turns his back on Red and walks away.

Points to the man with all the wealth and power. Leaving him confident, setting him up for their next meeting.

Red lifts an eyebrow at the armed guards standing by the door.

They part and he strolls among them back towards the suite he shares with Liz.


	7. Recon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz is starting to feel better

Liz opens her eyes as soon as Red leaves the room and the guards shut the door. She's woozy from the shot, but not as much as she was earlier. Her foot seems to have drifted away, no longer painful.

Wrestling off the covers, she hops first to the bathroom on one foot, clinging to the wall.

The sink is covered with neatly arranged toiletries. She hadn't really noticed them before.

The left side is over-crowded. Red travels with many more jars, flasks and vials than she does. Liz bends and sniffs one cologne after another. Elegant. Spicy. Subtle.

They all smell even better on Red. At least she remembers that. And how when they first met, she tried to hide her enjoyment whenever she stood close enough to smell his cologne.

His shaving supplies are on a shelf below the mirror. A brush, a low, round jar of shaving soap, a shiny chrome razor. Their captors must be overconfident or very inexperienced, to leave Red his razor blades.

Liz examines her battered reflection and winces.

She really needs make-up.

After vigorously brushing her teeth, Liz hops back towards the bed. She can see a lunch basket on the table in the alcove, a plate with a knife laid across it, a crumpled crimson napkin. 

But she's not very hungry.

Liz hops to the armoire and open it with a tug of her left hand, letting her injured right arm hang free.

Clothing hangs in tidy rows, all the hangers facing in the same direction.

Red has placed his elegant suits and shirts on the left, and a motley assortment of casual dresses, blouses, dark pant suits, and one daring, long red evening gown on the right.

She doesn't recognize half of these clothes.

Liz tugs the drawers open, fishes around, finds dark dress socks, stockings still in their original packages.

Then underwear.

Red's tee shirts are bleached white and appear either new or newly ironed; his boxers are folded as if on display.

Liz herself has apparently lost her taste for practical cotton underthings and with the exception of one sports bra and a matching set of boy briefs, all her underthings are minimal and lacy.

Marriage has apparently changed her. Liz flushes at the thought of Red possibly choosing these garments for her, sitting and watching her as she models them for him. Who knows what she may have done to arouse him, entice him?

No purse, no make-up. 

Liz closes the armoire and looks around the room. No other storage. 

She tries and fails to form a mental image of Red's briefcase. She's seen Dembe carrying several different types of bags, over the years.

There's a loud rattle at the window on the far side of the bed, then pale light comes streaming in as the shutters swing partway open into the room.

Liz leans her back on the armoire, standing still. Trying to avoid notice.

Not that her brightly striped sleep dress, which ends high on her pale thighs, is conducive to blending into a background of dark wood.

There are exterior shutters folded back, then glass windows gaping accordion style, then decorative iron bars. Then the slatted interior shutters.

An icy wind sweeps into the room. Liz gasps.

A guard stands on a stone terrace outside, looking in, one gloved hand fishing between the bars for the banging shutters.

She's never been so happy to hear Red sweep into the room, shedding guards at the door, crossing to the window with an angry expression on his face.

He shoos the guard away, reaches through the bars and latches the glass windows, folds the interior shutters back over the windows until it's dark in the room once more.

"Elizabeth?"

"I was looking for make-up" explains Liz, putting out her hands to Red and clutching his shoulders. Her leg is trembling now.

Once again, he pulls her up into his arms and carries her carefully to the bed.

"You don't need make-up, Elizabeth. You're so beautiful, just the way you are."

He sets her carefully in bed, arranges her pillows until she sighs.

"That's good. Thank you, Red."

He bends down and kisses her forehead.

"There's food and wine, let me bring you a picnic in bed."

Now that she's warm and comfortable again, a meal does sound good.

"Red, I love you so much."

Saying it just feels right. 

"You've remembered, Elizabeth?" he asks her in a low, careful voice. He's standing with a wine bottle in one hand, a tilted glass in the other, not pouring yet.

Liz shakes her head slowly.

"I'm just sure I wouldn't have married you - you wouldn't have been willing to marry me - if I didn't truly love you, with my whole heart."

That sounds so soppy, but Red's eyes are suspiciously bright.

"No more of that, or I'm not going to allow you to drink wine" he warns her, pouring a scant half-glass and crossing the room to place it in her hand.

Liz takes a grateful sip, feels the red wine burning its way down her throat. It will all come back to her, she's absolutely sure of that.


	8. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Strategy

Red knew it was going to be challenging, sharing a bed with Elizabeth Keen, even injured as she is.

He's been attracted to her since the day they met. She's tough, and beautiful, and she learns so fast. 

He looks across the rim of his wine glass at her, raises it in a silent toast.

Liz doesn't see how the men she works with watch her, but he does. How strangers on the street turn their heads at the radiance of her smile.

With Tom out of the way, it will only be a matter of time before she meets some worthy young man. Red had her carefully watched in San Francisco - she tried online dating, purchased daring new lingerie, ate quite a few expensive lunches and dinners out with men she never dated again.

Red has played the waiting game before, and until San Francisco, until she blithely started dating other men, he thought events were progressing nicely.

Well, with glacial slowness. But still.

She did save his life.

Liz sips her wine with evident enjoyment, uses it to wash down more aspirin, which is surely not consistent with the doctor's orders.

She's smiling so warmly at him, doing her own slightly awkward version of charming.

Red hates the way she keeps looking up at him, her eyes full of love. He never wants her to stop.

There has to be a way for them to survive this, after she remembers. So that he'll be more to her than just another liar.

Stories within stories. Would that make things better, or worse?

He's about to find out. This can't go on.

"Perhaps you need to be courted again, Elizabeth?" Red takes an unhurried sip of his wine.

"You think that will help me recover my memories?"

Red gives a casual shrug, unbuttons his top shirt button. Watches as her eyes track the movements of his hand. He gestures towards her with his wine glass.

"We're practically newlyweds, perhaps we need to treat this situation as an opportunity."

Liz gives him an incredulous look.

"We may be here quite a while," Red goes on. "Dembe won't suspect anything is wrong until he completes his task and is ready for the sale."

"Red?!?"

She sounds suspicious. Almost exasperated.

Red sets down his wine glass, goes down on one knee beside the bed. He's at eye-level with her now.

"Red?"

"Trust me, Elizabeth. In this, let me lead."

"Of course, Red."

"Every moment we have together is precious, Elizabeth. No matter what we're doing. Never forget that."

He bends his head, takes her hand, presses kisses in the center of her palm. Feels the tremors run through her as she reacts to his touch.

The way he's always dreamed she would.

Liz takes a deep breath, holds it in.

"If I tell you I don't remember you doing that at all, will you do it again?" she asks.

He looks into her eyes and smiles broadly. "But you remember it now, dear, don't you?" he responds.

Liz just rolls her eyes at him, pulls her hand away, and takes another sip of her wine.


	9. Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters progress slowly

It's been more than a week, and Liz sometimes wants to scream at how slowly Red is taking things between them.

He's eaten dinner downstairs twice, bringing a plate of rich food and a bottle of wine up to her afterward, but their host is apparently still delayed.

Red has been playing the attentive suitor to the hilt, reading poetry to her, paying her elaborate, flowery compliments in various languages, teasing her with his formidable charm at the forefront. She plays along, tries to break through the shell, the distance, that seems to be forming invisibly around him.

She knows someone is eavesdropping on their every word. And yet, still.

It's late, and he hasn't come to bed yet. He's probably still downstairs with Anders Mansour. They didn't dine together tonight, but Red claims Anders wants to play chess with him.

Red has his eye on Anders' cognac.

Her husband is a man of so many contradictions. She can't think of anything less like a courtship than leaving her up here, alone in their bed.

Unless he's trying to deliberately make her miss him, long for him.

Her thoughts are becoming impossibly convoluted, but she's not ready to refuse the evening injections yet. Liz snuggles down into the covers and focuses on sleep. She needs rest to heal, and listening for Red is decidedly not restful.

He can slip into bed so quietly she doesn't even wake up. Most of the time. The rest of the time, she keeps her eyes closed, pretends to sleep. It's the sort of thing men like to be smug about.

Red's had a lot to drink when he finally arrives, she can smell it across the room. He crosses to the bathroom, stands there swaying, clutching the doorjamb. The guards slam the door with what Liz thinks rather sleepily is quite unnecessary force.

"Just come to bed, Red" she calls to him. "You can take a bath in the morning."

He sheds his clothes at the side of the bed and pulls on the pajamas she laid out for him. She can hop around the room now, although she still needs Red's help to get in and out of the bathtub.

Lying on his side facing her, Red pulls the covers up to his chin. He reaches over, strokes her cheek with the back of one knuckle.

"Have you remembered anything yet?" he whispers. 

"No, nothing."

It's so soothing, the way Red is stroking her forehead, her hair, the line of her jaw. Sometimes it almost feels as though he's exploring her face for the first time, trying to memorize the feel of her skin.

"Red, what if I never remember?"

His forefinger traces the line of her lower lip. If she kisses that finger, he'll stop.

Liz parts her lips, licks her top lip. His finger follows, wiping the wetness away.

"You'll remember, Elizabeth. And everything will be just the way it was before. Only better."

His voice is low, sleepy, filled with promises.

"I'm so glad I married you, Red," she whispers back.

***  
Two hours later she's awake. Wide-eyed, terrified, completely and utterly awake.


	10. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red has bad dreams

He knew that last snifter was a mistake. Probably the last three.

Did he really think, just because it had been more than a week, that his nightmares had somehow disappeared?

Red is furious with himself, and the only other target is Lizzie.

Who is sitting up in bed, eyes huge in the dim light from her bedside lamp.

"I couldn't wake you up" she says, her voice shaking.

His nose is so stuffed up that if he speaks, he'll gasp for breath. His face is wet. Red concentrates on breathing through his mouth, feeling his pounding heart rate begin to subside.

It's like suffering a panic attack in his sleep, like almost drowning. Red sees his daughter in his dreams almost every night, at least a glimpse. He never knows until it happens, too late to wake himself up, in which dreams she will die. 

"Did I hurt you?" he manages, finally. Liz is clutching her bandaged hand to her chest.

"No."

She shakes her head vigorously, dark hair tangling about her face. That's a good sign, the pain in her head is receding.

"If it happens again, you'll need to slap me," he says, hearing how flat and cold his voice is, knowing with a detached sort of regret that he's hurting her.

Dembe knows just how much force to use.

So many peaceful nights of sleep, curled close to the warmth of Lizzie's fragile, injured body. It has been unprecedented.

"I have nightmares, too, Red" Lizzie says, holding his gaze as he sits up in bed, turned to face her. He loves her for how she ignores the last of the tears drying on his cheeks, the salt stiff on his skin. "You won't need to slap me, just hold me very tight, and I'll wake up."

Red hates Tom Keen.

"I suppose I said something vile to you?" he asks her, quietly. He also makes noises, wretched noises, or he swears. It's not predictable.

Liz gives a tired little shrug.

"It's worth it, whatever you say, whatever you do."

Red stares at her. The words aren't making sense. He drank so much cognac he's still drunk, his breath smells rank, if he lifts his hands to touch her he knows they will shake. He's almost vibrating with reaction. Like coming down after a battle.

Only he lost this battle a long, long time ago.

Liz stretches out her injured arm, lays it over his shoulder, hooks her bandaged hand around the back of his neck. She tugs gently, and he can't resist without hurting her.

"Red, I'm your wife."

Her arm is slim and warm, relentless.

"Just lie down and sleep."

It can't cause any more damage. He won't sleep the rest of the night. He shouldn't even try to sleep tomorrow night.

Liz guides his head to her pillow, his chin on her shoulder. He turns his face into the curve of her neck. Feels her soft lips press kisses to the top of his head. Red endures them. It's all he can offer her, right now.

She'll sleep soon, he thinks, as her arms wrap around him. Liz tucks her injured hand lightly at her side, tugs the blankets up around them both with her other arm. Squirms a little to get comfortable, then sets her hand on his hip beneath the covers. Rubs the top of his thigh comfortingly, slides up to his waist, stroking and petting his side, his belly, his chest, through the thin cotton of his pajamas.

Red knows he needs to pull away, she's taking liberties he never meant to allow her, but her slow touches feel so good, so intimate, so utterly non-sexual.

Maybe just a few more minutes.


	11. Entrain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz, awake

Liz breathes in unison with Red, breathes slower and slower, in and out, until at last he sleeps.

She can smell his scalp, his cognac breath is hot on her neck, his right leg has inched across her legs and his weight on her injured ankle is just this side of bearable.

She's in heaven.

Sam taught her this, taught her by example when her young child dreams, dreams of blood and fire, woke her screaming. Taught her with words when she was old enough to understand.

Sam taught her what to do.

'You need to entrain,' Sam insisted. "Match your heart rate, match your breath, match the very rhythms of your brain."

He taught her magic, what it takes to make another human being trust her down to his bones. 

Liz has failed Red, she doesn't remember even a moment of so many months of their married life together. How terrible must that be for him, to have opened his heart to her, created a new family together with her, only to watch that world vanish?

Red stirs slightly in his sleep.

Entrain.

Red asked her to follow his lead, but she's not a follower. Liz can't believe he would ever have chosen to love, would have given his name to, the weak-willed woman she has become since the accident.

It's not just the injections, although she suspects they are unnecessary.

He's trying to protect her from something. She's watched him get down on his knees, irrevocably soiling his custom tailored suits. Watched him kill men she wanted kept alive. He moves through the world like a force of nature. The Raymond Reddington who Liz can still remember appeared in turn urbane, jovial, demanding, secretive. A master manipulator.

With Red, if it feels perfect, then it's not.

She's so grateful. She knows the nightmares are real to him. It almost stops her heart, the thought that their marriage, her love, have opened Red up to the risk of further loss. He's so different in his tormented sleep, all raw fury and despair, his voice like a whip.

If it happens again, when it happens again, she'll hit him hard.


	12. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red wakes up after a night of nightmares.

Red wakes to the smell of coffee, icy morning light streaming through the open shutters in the alcove, the covers tucked firmly around him. Liz is wearing his long green robe belted loosely around her small frame.

He slept. How did she get him to sleep?

Liz insists they eat breakfast in bed, sitting cross-legged opposite each other with the breakfast tray between them.

She's somehow convinced the guards to bring her several decks of playing cards, and she shuffles expertly. Like a magician, not a card shark.

Red bathes quickly, shaves slowly, emerges from the bathroom back in his pajamas, as Liz requests. If she wants a lazy day in bed, in his company, he'll find some way to make that work. 

She teaches him card tricks.

She laughs at his jokes.

She tells him stories from her childhood. Stories of Sam.

She's clearly abandoned trying to force herself to remember anything, not sad or embarrassed, not confused. If anything, Liz seems more comfortable with him than he's ever seen her.

As all his nerves drain away, Red feels himself recovering his customary poise, drawling his most daring stories at her. Trying to elicit her delicious giggles.

"You cannot be serious?"

She's laughing, tossing her head back, a broad, so white smile that invites his response.

Red smirks.

"Always, my dear. Especially when it comes to the very private tastes of the former leader of the free world."

He flicks his eyelashes at her, just a second of camp, enjoys how her grin widens when she catches it.

Liz sighs happily. 

"Sometimes I think you've been everywhere, done everything."

Red gives a little shrug, looks down at his nails for a moment.

"Really, I'm fine with it, Red" Liz assures him, reaching out and giving his wrist a little squeeze. "If our positions were reversed, I'd probably be impressing you with some very similar stories."

Red swallows carefully. 

He's never imagined that particular scenario, Lizzie elegant and jaded at his current age. His own youthful self, an earnest, naive naval officer, already losing his hair, but in the very best shape of his life.

She would have wrecked him.

If she had even looked twice at him.

Red grins across the neat stacks of cards on the bed and into her wide blue eyes, overly wide, overly innocent.

"Have a thing for older women, do we?" she says demurely.

"Not anymore," he answers her. Too serious - she flushes slightly.

"I didn't mean .." she begins.

"Oh, of course you did" he responds lightly. "I certainly understand the impulse ..."

He stops speaking as she looks down for a moment.

Oh, damn, damn Tom Keen.

It's like a minefield, talking to Liz.

"The impulse to be sure you'll be faithful," she finishes for him. Her cheeks are bright with color, but her eyes are steady on his face.

It's not a conversation he wants to have with her. Certainly not now. Preferably, not ever.

"Elizabeth .." he says, in a warning tone.

Her shoulders are squared, she's rubbing her scar, her eyelashes dip low over her hard, hard eyes.

"Do what you need to do, Red," she says in a clipped voice. "Just know that I too will do what's best for us both, for our mutual goals. No hesitation, no shame, no regrets."

Red barely manages to restrain himself from responding in kind. How could she, how dare she?

Liz bursts into laughter, leaning over, holding her stomach.

Red allows her a wintry smile, the shocking stab of ice in the center of his chest slowly dissolving.

"Oh , Red, your face..." Liz dissolves into giggles again. 

He reaches over and gives one of her dark curls a tug. 

"Keep talking like that, and my fidelity, or lack thereof, will be the least of your worries."

Liz picks up the cards, shuffles them, offers him the pack to cut.

"Gin?"

"Poker, Elizabeth. Poker."


	13. A Formal Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their host finally returns

At last, their host has returned.

Liz limps around the suite, kicking at the hem of her long red evening gown, the only dress she has that is half-way suitable to a formal dinner in a modern European castle in winter.

The doctor has finally put a walking cast on her right foot and ankle. No more injections, just aspirin and wine with every meal. Even their morning breakfast tray now includes at least one bottle of chilled cava.

She's trying to get her strength back, but the brief, cold walks on the stone terrace outside their suite have not been sufficient. She's considering asking Red to teach her some new martial arts moves, to supplement her careful yoga poses that avoid her right hand and foot.

Red has been in the bath long enough that she wonders what he's doing in there.

Oh.

It suddenly occurs to her what he might be doing in there. All that splashing.

He seems so relaxed after every bath, she's hinted that perhaps, once they escape this situation, they should travel to Iceland to experience the hot springs.

No wonder Red gave her a funny look.

Liz sits at the small round table, clasps her hands, tries for patience. She's been looking forward to her first visit downstairs so much. If they're not ready on time, will dinner be canceled?

As Red emerges from the bathroom, elegantly dressed, Liz wonders, not for the first time, about his apparent modesty.

He's been so circumspect, she hasn't really seen much more of his body than she remembers from their days working together. His bare feet. A little more of his chest, at the neck of his pajamas.

He wants her to remember first, to look at her with the love that earned her that intimacy.

She braces for another of Red's fulsome compliments, which he seems to believe are necessary to his courtship of her, but he just comes to her, holding out his wrists.

Liz can't help but think, just for an instant, that she doesn't have her handcuffs with her.

"Cuff links, dear?" he twinkles down at her. Red smells deliciously of cologne, his nails are trimmed short, the pale hairs at his wrists gleam.

"Of course."

Liz picks up the gold and ebony cuff links from the table, fits them into place.

He smiles down at her.

"Do you remember our dance, at the Syrian Embassy?"

Liz nods. Here it comes.

"You were lovely as a rose bud, and now you are a blossom."

"And I'm twining around you, correct?"

"Perhaps after dinner," says Red, holding out his arm. "I'm quite hungry. Shall we inform the guards we're ready?"

It's long, slow walk, but finally they arrive in a small sitting room with high ceilings and richly upholstered chairs and a fabulous old Axminster carpet that fits the room perfectly. Or perhaps the room was built for it? 

Liz has met a great many wealthy people in the course of her work. Just not socially. For a brief instant it occurs to her that she and Red are wealthy too, although she doesn't have any idea on what scale. She pushes the thought away fast, down deep. Plenty of time to ask Red about that later.

Michel Segeures and his wife Chlotilde are mid-thirties, with straight dark hair and slim bodies clad in black. Coming forward to greet them at the door, Anders Mansour, it appears, shares little with his sister save dark brown, slightly bulbous eyes and a taste for handmade Italian shoes.

"I'm delighted to meet you at last," Red steps in front of her, greets their host and hostess as Liz is still exchanging pleasantries with Anders.

"How good of you to join us, Mr. Reddington," says Chlotilde graciously, inclining her head towards Liz. She lays one slim hand, heavy with jewels, in Red's, then passes him to her husband, who shakes hands more firmly.

Liz stands back, excused from this particular ritual by the bandage on her hand.

A older male servant pauses at the doorway, enters the room after the two armed guards, who have taken their places against the wall, nod. He passes around a tray of small glasses containing brightly colored aperitifs. Liz takes one at random, sips.

Licorice. Ugh.

Red, who has been chatting expansively at her side, lifts the glass from her hand and replaces it with his own.

"You'll like this much better, dear," he advises her.

How did he know? 

Liz does. It's sour plum, pungent, very strong.

She listens to the flow of casual talk with one ear, smiling and nodding.

What an oddly formal little gathering. It's almost as if Chlotilde Segeures believes they just arrived as willing guests, business associates of her husband.

They pass through an arched stone passageway into a formal dining room, lit with candles, and take their places at an elegantly set table.

Red seats her with a little flourish, his fingertips barely grazing her bare shoulder before he rounds the table to sit opposite her.

Course follows course as silent male servants deftly serve and replace a bewildering variety of plates, utensils, and glasses for the accompanying wines.

Liz has never been so grateful for the FBI social seminars she and Ressler had mocked at the time. She can hold her own, even if sometimes she looks down and briefly closes her eyes to bring up an image of a strangely shaped fork. It helps that she's using her left hand; her hesitations aren't too noticeable.

Red eats freely, clearly savoring his food, trading stories with Michel Segeures who has unbent enough to actually laugh outright, twice.

After several false conversational starts, after which it becomes clear that Liz has neither seen the latest plays in London and New York, nor read any of the latest bestsellers, fiction or non-fiction, Chlotilde talks politics with Liz.

"We've been on honeymoon, you see," Liz excuses herself. 

Chlotilde smiles warmly.

"Michel and I married so young - he was my family's choice - my father planned my wedding, my honeymoon."

"Where did you go?" Liz asks, genuinely interested. 

"An island off Venezuela. He bought it for me, when I was born." Chlotilde shrugs lightly. "I prefer the snow."

After dessert, they adjourn to a large room furnished with several groupings of low, velvet-covered sofas and a shining grand piano. Anders Mansour has small pudgy hands and the face of a thug, but he plays beautifully.

It is still a great relief when Michel and Red excuse themselves for a cigar and some private conversation.

Liz sits beside Chlotilde, listening to her brother play the piano. 

Perhaps it's because she's so tired, so full of rich food and expensive wine, but Liz thinks there's something otherworldly about the scene.

The silent guards in pairs at every door, the wall sconces and high, heavy chandeliers casting the flickering golden glow of candlelight across the room. There must be at least a hundred candles burning, just in this room. 

"Are you weary?" asks Chlotilde, and Liz shrugs politely.

If Red is smoking excellent cigars, he can talk for hours.

"You were lost in the music, but I know you must be tired, and still hurting from your unfortunate car accident."

The music stops abruptly, mid-note.

"I will escort Mrs. Reddington back to her room," Anders announces.

Liz and Chlotilde rise, smile polite little smiles at each other.

"I do hope I see you again before you leave" murmurs Clothilde as Liz departs, limping, having refused Anders' arm.

They will leaving soon?

Liz hopes that's a good sign.


	14. Not Much Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red knows their visit is drawing to a close

"Good news, Elizabeth .."

Red bustles through the doorway, waves the guards away, shuts the door firmly.

He turns back and takes a closer look at Lizzie, lying sideways on the bed. 

She's still dressed in the red dress, the white of her cast, the bandages on her hand, her head, bright in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

Her eyes are closed, her dark lashes so long. Liz is sleeping on her back, her bare foot dangling, walking cast resting on the floor. As he approaches, Red can see the soft curve of her breasts swelling against her lacy black bra, the loose neckline of the dress sliding to one side.

He pauses, looks down at her.

Really looks.

The youthful fullness of her face, the small breaths emerging from her parted lips, the way the small hard muscles of her arms, regularly so tense, fall loosely in her sleep.

She's not arrayed for his delectation, she's just sleeping. The deep, complete sleep of a woman who trusts her husband.

And Red knows just what to do.

He bends down, strokes her hair, tucks an errant lock behind her ear. Whispers her name.

Liz opens her eyes a little, blinks.

"Zipper stuck?" he commiserates.

"Red, I want to go to bed," she complains quietly.

Taking her wrists, Red pulls her to stand up and turns her facing the bed, lifts her hair from the back of her neck, fiddles with the zipper until he releases the delicate fabric, allowing the gown to slide down past her waist. The skin of her back is pale and smooth, without blemish.

"I tried to wait up for you," she says, unhooking her bra and dropping it to the floor. Her left thumb is hooked into the lace-adorned string that serves at the waistband of her minuscule panties.

With her heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes, she gives him a teasing look over one bare shoulder. Tugs the panties down, just a little.

Red stares into heaven from hell.

He wants to pull her against his chest, run his hands greedily up the front of her body.

He wants to grab her hips, push her down on the bed, fall forward onto her with all his weight.

He wants to step back, cross his arms, and demand she continue, strip for him, prove that she desires him.

He wants her to beg for his touch.

He's much too close to begging for her forgiveness.

Red snaps his fingers.

"I put your night gown on the towel warmer before we left for dinner." he says, hurrying to the bathroom and returning with the heated cotton garment. "Pull off those tight little panties, darling, and get comfortable."

"Oh Red." It's as close to a whine as he's ever heard from her, but she obeys.

Red holds up the sleep shirt and helps Liz pull it over her head, keeping his eyes on the shirt, not on her.

He lifts the covers, tucks her in, presses a kiss to her forehead.

"I have news to share, but it can keep until tomorrow," he whispers.

"Come to bed, Red, and hold me" she whispers back. "Please darling, I need you so much."

If it wouldn't put Lizzie at terrible risk, irrevocably compromise their mission, and probably get him slaughtered in the process, Red would like to step out into the hallway and kill his way through the guards to the library. 

He'd like to sit alone and read a book, collect his thoughts, stare at the snow-covered peaks and think only about his own personal interests, if he still has any, at this point.

Instead, he shrugs off his dinner jacket and steps away from the bed, reaching down to collect Liz's discarded garments.

"Get some rest, I'll be with you soon," he responds as he retreats to the bathroom.

Their time here is drawing to a close, and Red is both incredibly relieved and horribly apprehensive.


	15. Like Watching Two Movies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz remembers

Liz stretches in bed, looks over at Red sitting at the table and enjoying an extended breakfast. He's wearing a light gray suit and a freshly ironed shirt. The shutters are open; he must have been trying to gently awaken her.

She pulls herself up to sit against her pillows.

"I have some good news, Elizabeth," Red informs her, munching on thin slices of pear. He holds one out in her general direction.

"Coffee?" she asks, rubbing her eyes. So much wine last night. She never sleeps this late.

Red eats the last slice of his pear with a snap of his teeth. She gives him an imploring look and he brings her coffee to her. Liz draws up her knees and Red sits on the bed by her feet.

"We're going to be leaving soon?" Liz asks him, closing her eyes for a moment to savor the heat of the coffee in her mouth, sliding down her throat.

"Yes, Michel and I had quite a productive little discussion last night. The last of the missile components arrived last night, so all he's lacking are the warheads."

Liz frowns at Red.

Missiles? Warheads? They haven't discussed whatever botched business deal has landed her and Red here; why is that ringing a tiny bell, far away in the depths of her mind?

"All assembled, curiously enough, in Pakistan, of Chinese parts. New parts."

She knows a great deal about missiles, including older models in high demand, from working at the FBI. But the image in her mind, bending over a table examining lists of compromised Soviet missile sites, Ressler so close their elbows almost touch, that feels very recent somehow.

"And we're selling him the warheads?"

Red nods, lifts her now empty cup from her hand, carries it to the table for a refill.

"Yes. All that remains is confirming the warheads are available for immediate delivery, and of course, our payment. I'll be contacting Dembe this morning."

Dembe Zuma. She can see him sleeping, his seat reclined, his face as ever composed, almost grave.

It's like watching two movies at once, one shot over the other on the same film.

Or like falling backwards from a height, like the final instant before a car crash, when time seems to distend, every second taking minutes.

She's in a suit, the familiar weight of her badge in her pocket, so relieved to leave the loneliness and boredom of San Francisco. 

The way Red hums as he shaves, always flushes the toilet twice, folds their dirty laundry before placing it in the basket by the door to be taken away and cleaned.

Red the monster, the criminal, who abandoned her for six months. The man she thought she might never see again. A distant enigma.

Red tenderly cleaning her hair around the bandage, strand by strand, alternating his comb and a hot, wet washcloth, until she can't smell blood any more. 

Missiles in private hands, in central Europe. She and Red are somewhere in the Spanish Pyrenees.

Red standing with his back to her, adding the perfect amount of cream and sugar to her second cup of coffee.

Her beloved husband.

A treacherous stranger.

"Here you go, dear."

Liz takes the cup, tries to clear her throat, which is choked with rage. At least she thinks it's rage. Her mind seems to be going blank, flipping back and forth between two incompatible worlds.

Red laughing at himself as he tries to learn card tricks. Moving silently in a shaft of morning sunlight, doing his tai chi for her to watch and learn. The weight of him in bed beside her, so that she rolls a little towards him in the night.

Red telling her she's special, but never explaining why. Using her and the bureau in pursuit of his own hidden agendas, over and over again. Denying her the truth to keep her off balance.

Her husband reading her poetry by the hour, slicing and buttering her scones before feeding them to her in tiny perfect bites when her head is pounding, relating a few specific details from his nightmares. Just so she's clear they have nothing to do with her.

Red's secrecy playing so exactly to her profiler's mind, keeping her curious, wanting more. His rare gestures of affection, manipulating her at her weakest moments. All the dangers she faced, the damage to her career, just so he can be the one to save her, bind her closer. 

"I'm hungry, would you fetch me a plate?"

"Of course, what would you like?"

"You choose for me, please?"

He turns back to the table, picks up a plate.

Red enjoys selecting her food, setting out little slices of this and that, discovering the combinations that please her best.

Liz can't find any gaps in her memories as they flood back into her consciousness. No gaps that could contain a courtship, a wedding, a flight around the world.

Liz remembers again how the bullets pounded her as she flung herself on Red, that afternoon by the pool. When she thought she was going to lose him, watch him die so close to her she would have felt the hot spatter of his life's blood.

Those brief moments are her only memory of lying close to Red, before she woke up in this room.

She's almost sure of it. 

Red sits on the bed at her feet once again, holding out her plate. Small bites of fruit and pastries, artfully arranged. He's holding a flute of cava in his other hand, the bubbles in the all but colorless liquid sparkling in the cold morning sun.

Neither of them are wearing wedding rings. Did they ever?

"I expect we'll be leaving today, but certainly not until after lunch," says Red, sipping the cava with evident appreciation. "So don't bother dressing for travel just yet."

Liz concentrates on eating.

"Is your head hurting again, Elizabeth?"

Red's voice is warm, filled with what sounds like completely genuine concern.

Even after Tom, Liz is shocked by how well Red plays the role of solicitous husband. 

Better, actually.

Tom was often sulky, demanding, the expression in his overly wide eyes, magnified by his thick glasses, pitiful like an injured dog. Liz felt intermittantly horrible, even in the early days of their marriage, because she constantly had to fight the urge to strike him whenever he whined or cringed. Tom always focused on himself.

Red, on the other hand, has always focused on her.

He leaves her free to focus on her own needs, or on him, as she chooses. Always. In this small way, at least, her two worlds are congruent. 

Does she want them to be?

"Elizabeth?"

Red's hand is shockingly warm, his knuckles lying so lightly against her cheekbone.

She nods, looks down at the few crumbs on her plate.

"I'll get you some aspirin." He gets up, goes to the bathroom. "We'll go straight to London, have x-rays and ultrasounds and complete blood work done at once. I know a marvelous little clinic."

She hears the rattle of the bottle.

Oh god, he helped her shave her legs. 

Why didn't Red take the farce to its logical extension? Touch her, make love to her, instead of just sleeping so chastely beside her? Is she too young, not attractive to him in that way?

Liz hasn't been with many men, and her longest relationship has been two years of a fake marriage that corroded every ounce of confidence she ever had in her own desirability.

But she is absolutely willing to swear that Red feels something for her. That when she has felt desire rising within her in the course of his mock courtship, her desire was built and fed on his own love and lust and something else, something desperate.

Once they get out of here, she's going to find out. And then she'll punish him for breaking her heart, as she never had the chance to punish Tom.

Wait - her heart?

Liz stares over at Red, who has emerged from the bathroom with a glass of water in one hand and four round tablets in the palm of the other.

He tilts his head and gives her a quizzical look.

"Just wondering what I'm going to wear," she says, holding out her hand for the water glass, allowing him to slip the tablets into her mouth. They've done this so many times. 

This is the last time. The first of so many last times.


	16. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they return to Red's world

Red's back in his element again, at long last.

The warm rich sound of Dembe's voice.

His jet waiting in Barcelona.

Fresh clothing, a selection of fedoras, reading material, phones.

He's going to be on the phone for hours, picking up the threads of his life once again.

The tablet on the table between them shows hefty transfer of funds. Red calculates the exchange rates in his head, internally pleased with the ten percent premium Michel has added for the inconvenience of their enforced visit.

"I could not allow any hint of my plans to reach the authorities" the man explains without apology. Michel is dressed casually, in ski pants and a heavy cashmere sweater. "When I learned that Lady Martingale had contacted Interpol ...."

"You could have come to me," Red responds dryly. "I do clean up my own messes."

Apparently, Mari had been doing herself a favor, instead of him. And paid for her foolishness with a rather painless demise, considering the depth of the betrayal.

Red doesn't appreciate looking less than omnipotent in any operation involving the FBI.

"If we do business again," says Red severely, looking up at the three story wall of glass, memorizing the angles of the snowy peaks, "I expect you to keep me informed of any relevant developments. I have a reputation to maintain."

"I suspect my own personal nuclear deterrent will be sufficient," returns Michel smoothly. "I don't anticipate that we'll meet again."

Red shrugs.

"Upgrades, service techs, next gen targeting software?"

Michel gives him a sharp glance.

Red shrugs again.

"Please express my gratitude to your lovely wife. Dinner was delightful; Elizabeth and I are leaving with so many pleasant memories of our stay as your guests."

"Anders will show you downstairs once you complete your packing."

Michel turns away without shaking Red's hand in farewell. A lovely touch.

He's going to get Lizzie safely away from here. Get to that clinic outside London, make sure she's healing properly. Spend one more night at her side. In her bed. In a room where no one is listening in. He's going to have to tell her the truth.

Maybe he should just tell her on the jet.

Briefly, Red indulges once again in the fantasy that he remains silent, and Liz never remembers.

They fly to Iceland as she requested. Make love in steaming natural hot springs surrounded by snow and ice.

Red wants to buy her a wedding ring at his favorite jeweler in Basel. 

Adorn her with the Old Kingdom jewelry he stole in Cairo so many years ago. 

Take her to India and make love with her in a lavish tent outside Khajuraho. Red wants to test the limits of his stamina, his imagination, his own and Lizzie's physical and mental flexibility.

Every inch of her is beautiful to him, every imperfection, her quick anger, her impatience, the deep well of bitter hurt she's swallowed again and again. How her whole face lights up like a little girl when he pleases her.

How he aches to please her.

Red doesn't want to watch the trust die forever in her blue eyes, relinquish her to her bumbling colleagues, her mundane FBI duties, and another cheap, lonely apartment. He doesn't want to become just another man who lied to her, used her, betrayed her.

Red wants to give her the world. 

One again, he'll have to settle for having saved her life.


	17. Back on the Jet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz and Red are released. M.

They are being returned to the airport in a Range Rover with a sun roof. The afternoon sunlight bounces brightly off the snowfields as they begin the journey, Anders in a tweed suit and a guard in the front seat, Liz and Red in the back. A familiar large black van filled with more guards follows them down the steep road.

Liz shields her eyes with her bandaged hand and winces.

"Your head?" says Red with concern. "Here, take my glasses."

Liz puts on Red's oversize, metal framed sunglasses, and the bright light dims to yellow. He blinks, squinting, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. She knows how sensitive Red is to bright light.

He'll have a terrible headache by the time they reach Barcelona. It's a start.

Liz tucks her hand into Red's hand, snuggles close to him, and talks about Tom. The circles beneath Red's eyes deepen.

When they reach the jet, the exchange of pleasantries with Anders is minimal. Red ushers her up the stairs with his palm in the small of her back. She hopes he's enjoying the view of her very short skirt. They are cleared for immediate departure.

Liz stands near Red's seat in the center of the plane, taking off her jacket. She's wearing a thin white silk blouse, half-unbuttoned already, without a bra.

"Sit up front with the pilot for a little while, please, Dembe," says Liz. "I need to be alone with my husband."

Dembe gives her a wide, beautiful smile and does as she asks.

She's timed it perfectly.

Red was just taking his first, deep sip of 100 year old scotch. He has the glass in one hand, his phone in the other. He's squinting at the screen.

By the time he swallows, she's stepped over his knees, her walking cast an awkward, heavy weight, and is sinking down onto his lap.

Her short skirt rides up her bare thighs as she pins his legs together, presses her hands to his shoulders.

Liz has shoved his sunglasses up on her head to hold her hair away from her face. Their eyes meet, his wary, hers unwavering as she focuses on her revenge. She can actually feel her pupils dilate. Rage can read like desire. Sometimes, it feels like it, too.

"Finally, I can be alone with my husband."

Red starts to frown, and Liz leans close, angling her breasts against his chest, stopping just short of kissing him.

"There's nobody listening to us now, nobody watching."

She presses her body closer.

Red does want her, she knows that now without a doubt, and how excellent is his tailor, that she never suspected how much, until this moment.

Liz knows which of her plans to put in motion.

Red thinks he's so clever, he probably sees himself as such a masterful lover. It's going to get ugly, and awkward, and messy as hell.

She's going to hurt him as deeply as she can. She's been mapping it out in her mind, stealing ruthlessly from Tom's playbook. Unresponsive as a stone, then sweetly disappointed, then frustrated, and finally she's going to let herself cry. Her hands everywhere on him, then her mouth, but he's not going to be able to please her at all, his every effort resulting in humiliating failure. He's going to be very, very sorry.

She's practiced the words in her head too, on that long drive down from the mountains. 

'I don't understand, it was so much better with Tom.'

'That hurts, Red.'

'You should know what I like by now. What are you doing?'

She'll break his arrogance, make him pay for his lies, no matter what it costs her.

Liz bends her head and takes Red's mouth, kisses him hard and sloppy, ignoring his attempts to moderate the kiss, to pull away. Their mouths fit perfectly together.

She's done with wondering, waiting. She'll break herself, if that's what it takes to break Red.

Her hands are off his shoulders now, gliding to caress his chest through the wool of his vest, his shirt, his undershirt. She feels his heart pounding, reaches with her left hand to set his drink on the seat beside them, guides his right hand to her thigh.

"Lizzie?"

She slides their hands together up under her skirt, kisses him again, draws back to hold his gaze. She can tell the exact second Red realizes she's not wearing panties. 

He drops the phone, he's breathing hard, and she can hear herself pant as they stare at each other.

Liz lifts her chin.

"You owe me, Red, for all these weeks of frustration." She licks her lips, feels his hips strain upwards. He's so big, so hard. She can use that, use her own desire too. 

"Stop teasing, and show me why I married you, Red."

It's going to be uncomfortable, then painful; she's going to beg him to stop. She's going to be petulant and critical, surprised and irritated about how inept he is as a lover. 

Liz trembles at the thought. Her lover, Raymond Reddington. Soon.

"You didn't."

He's still hard against her, and his fingers beneath her skirt are sticky wet, but still. Not moving. His broad shoulders are pressed tightly into the curve of the leather seat back behind him.

"Lizzie, darling, we're not married." He swallows, reaches his free hand slowly up to her face, traces the edge of the bandage on her head so delicately his touch doesn't hurt at all. "Lizzie, it was just a story, to keep you alive."

She stares at him, disappointment like acid in her stomach, in the back of her throat. She can still taste his scotch in her mouth.

"They would have killed you, as they did Mari, as they did all of her men. Killed you, and dumped your body in a ravine where no one could find you. Not even me."

He's still breathing hard, and his attempt at a matter of fact tone is less than successful.

"So if you're trying to punish me, Lizzie, I deserve it." Red licks his lips and she finds herself mesmerized by the tip of his tongue. "But not like this. We've never been lovers. Don't do this to yourself."

His voice is so deep. His familiar cologne smells so good, somehow different, stronger. His big body is taut beneath hers, strung tight with the effort he's making not to touch her.

"You're too important to me. Tell me to go, Lizzie. I'll disappear forever. Just don't do this to yourself."

Liz can tell how badly Red wants to touch her. She can tell, because all of her hurt and rage and despair have been somehow transmuted into pure desire. She throbs for him, at the center of her being, unable to find words.

At last she whimpers. Squirms against his fingers, trying to work them up inside her.

It's not enough.

He's sitting so still, his gaze fixed on her mouth. Oh god, he's waiting for her to speak. At last she finds words, leans forward, whispers them into his ear.

"I remember. Everything. And I want you so much."

She holds her breath, waits with her lips beside his ear as he stares forward, then surrenders. Gives him the words, the plea she somehow knows he needs. 

"Please, Red. I need your help."

Red's eyes go unnaturally bright. 

"Lizzie, I love you with all my heart," he says in his most officious, distant, most idle tone of voice. He slides his free hand down her chest, smoothly undoing her buttons in passing with the skill of a pickpocket. Starts in on his own garments. Liz arches her back, squirms again."You wanton, wanton woman."

Liz is babbling endearments, all but incoherent by the time Red finally shows her that their bodies fit together as perfectly as their mouths.

And then shows her again.

Their clothes lie flung about the cabin, as if a piece of luggage burst open. Liz is halfway surprised that the jet is still flying smoothly along. She feels like she's floating. 

There's a notable catch in Red's voice, love and triumph and laughter crowding out any further pretense of dispassion. 

"London tonight. But by the end of the week, we'll be in Basel."


End file.
